


What Would John Do?

by solrosan



Series: Look how you care for them [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Minor Character Death, POV Alternating, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-14
Updated: 2014-06-14
Packaged: 2018-02-04 16:25:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1785643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solrosan/pseuds/solrosan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John gets tired of Harry's drinking and breaks all contact with her. Some months later, she dies of alcohol poisoning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written in October 2011 for [this prompt at the kink meme](%E2%80%9D) (while I was supposed to write my first master thesis).

”John! Answer your phone!” Sherlock ordered. “I can’t think with that – what on earth is that even? It sounds like a children’s telly show! You’re supposed to be a grown man, use a proper ringtone.”

John shook his head with an amused smile and moved away from the crime scene, ducking under the yellow tape. It was the first crime scene that had really intrigued Sherlock for months so he could understand why the he didn’t want to be disturbed. 

“Yes?” He answered even though it was an unknown number.

“Dr John Watson?” An unfamiliar man asked him to confirm.

“Yes, this is he.”

“I’m Dr Sage and I’m calling from Brighton General,” the man said and John’s brain jumped straight to professional mood. “I’m really sorry to bringing you this news over the phone, but your sister, Harriet Watson, died half an hour ago.”

John felt the air leave him and even though he had turned back and faced the crime scene – it was never good to leave Sherlock unattended around the police – he saw nothing. Harry shouldn’t be in Brighton. Why would she be in Brighton? She was… she was in London. He hadn’t spoken to her for eight months, but she was in London.

“Dr Watson, are you still there?”

“Yes, sorry.” John cleared his throat. “What, I mean, how…?”

“Alcohol poisoning. She was unconscious upon arrival and we never managed to revive her.” 

_Damn it, Harry…_

“I’m sorry,” Dr Sage said again.

“Than—” John had to pause mid-word and clear his throat again; to swallow, to remove the pressure that kept him from breathing properly. “Thank you for infor— telling me. I… I’m not at home right, right now… Can I call you back in an hour… or two?”

“Of course.” Dr Sage gave him a phone number that went straight to his ward, but John wasn’t capable of remembering it and, after once again hearing how sorry Dr Sage was, John hung up.

With a trembling breath he fell against the wall of the building behind him. He stared straight forward, not seeing much more than people moving in and out of his line of sight. The sounds muffled. 

_Damn it, Harry._

* * *

_John wasn’t the first one noticing, but after Tom had pointed it out it was too obvious to miss. Harry had a problem. It was called gin; it was called vodka, rum, wine and bear. Sake. Raki. Schnapps._

_Or just alcohol._

_It had taken him four days after Tom’s statement before John had accepted it. Harry was on the brink of becoming an alcoholic and he had to stop making excuses for her. None of the ‘whys’ mattered anymore._

_Well, yes, they did; they did still matter. Obviously it did matter that their parents didn’t accept her sexuality. Not to mention how important it was that she hadn’t come to terms with it herself because of their parents’ idiocy. It mattered. It counted as really good reasons, just not as good excuses._

_Not anymore._

_He had done it for far too long – letting her get away with it because he didn’t have the will or strengths to deal with it. To help her. Because of, or rather thanks to, Tom, he couldn’t keep his eyes closed anymore._

_“You’re so cute when you worry,” Harry said to him, lying on the sofa (his sofa!), and smiling innocently at her baby brother who was standing next to her with a concerned look and arms folded over his chest._

_“Seriously, Harry,” John said, almost pleading. “You have a problem.”_

_“Oh sod off, you,” she said, turning off the telly and sitting up. “I’m not one of your practice patients.”_

_“No, you’re my sister, that’s a hell of a lot more important,” he said, trying his hardest to sound honest and concerned. It came out mostly frustrated. Even a bit irritated. Well, frustrated and irritated were the feelings Harry provoked most of the time, so maybe it wasn't that strange._

_“I don’t have a drinking problem,” she said slowly, emphasising the words more than she had to. She had done it a lot when they were kids to imply that John was stupid. He’d hated it then, he hated it now._

_“Prove it.”_

_“Doctor Watson, please,” she said condescending, almost rolling her eyes at the doctor-part._

_“Shut up!”_

_“You shut up.”_

_“How old are you? Five?”_

_“That would make you what? Two?”_

_How did this, which was supposed to be a serious, adult conversation, end up being a childish argument? Did that happen to all siblings, or just the ones where the younger tried to be the more mature one?_

_“I’m serious, Harry,” John tried again, it had cost him so much to come to this realisation, he had shed tears because of it, and he wasn’t going to let her get out of this conversation._

_“That’s your problem,” she said. “You’re too serious. You see diseases and problems where there aren’t any. Then you worry about things that don’t exist...You shouldn’t worry about me, I should be the one worrying about you.”_

_“Well, who’s supposed to worry about you, then?” he asked, seating himself next to her._

_It was just three years between them. When they’d been children, Harry had looked after John to her best ability, in the way older sisters do, John supposed. Entering her early teens, Harry had soon ditched her baby brother; something else that John though was perfectly natural. Then they had been allies all through her late teenage years, sharing her secret, hiding it from their parents, until she’d had the courage to come out to them._

_“It’s okay, John,” she said, putting her arm around in. Comforting. “I don’t have a drinking problem.”_

_“Prove it. Please?” John asked her again. “If you’re sober for…one week, I’ll stop worrying.”_

_“Deal,” she said, smiling and hugging his shoulder._

_She did it. Not for just one week, she stayed sober for sixteen days._

_John was pleased (even if the seventeenth day ended with Harry falling asleep on his bathroom floor again), but he remembered Tom’s words and kept a closer eye on his sister’s drinking from that day on. She might have kept her part of the deal, but somehow, stop worrying seemed much harder than stop drinking._

* * *

“John!”

_Not now Sherlock, please._

John had no desire to look at the dead young man again. It was the third strangled backpacker in Paddington, staying at the same hostel; there was no way Sherlock could need him to establish a provisional cause of death before the official report came.

“John?” Sherlock’s voice was closer, lower.

John raised his head and met real worry in Sherlock’s eyes. It was too much, Sherlock couldn’t worry about him like this when there was such an interesting corpse just meters away. That somehow made it all real. 

“What’s happened?” 

“Please stop,” John begged, voice hoarse with tears, shaking his head and looking away from Sherlock. “Go back to Lestrade.”

It was hard to tell if he broke off because his voice didn’t hold or because he just didn’t know what to say. Either way, Sherlock obeyed. It was surprising, but appreciated.

* * *

_Five empty cups in various places. A plate with leftovers on the nightstand. Curtain closed for five days. A heavy pathology book in his lap. Notes taped all over the wall. Feet on the desk. Fingers entangled in the phone cord. Crying sister in the ear._

_John couldn’t hear a word of what she was saying. Honestly, he didn’t try that hard. No, most of his focus was on tissue samples. Two days from now he had a huge exam and, as always, he had started to study a week too late._

_Drunken phone calls from Harry were never welcomed. Even less so when he had more important things to do than tell her the expected “It’s going to be okay”, “You did the right thing”, “She an idiot” and so on. Well, he had always more important things to do than that._

_He didn’t have the time for this; instead he put the phone on the desk, returning to his book. It wasn’t hard to refocus, he wasn’t overly concerned about whatever problem his drama seeking sister had this evening. It was always something, always someone, especially when she was partying. She did it more often now, on completely random days, but John had sympathy for her, she had it…rough. That’s why he didn’t hang up, even though he really wanted to._

_After finishing each paragraph, he picked up the phone and said something to her. Not that it mattered, not that she would notice if he didn’t. This continued until the time John picked up the phone and instead of sobbing, heard snoring._

_Sighing he hung up the phone and took a moment to ponder if he should go to her and put her to bed. The decision to stay at the desk wasn’t as easy as the one putting down the phone, but it was the right one. Exam trumped passed out sister._

* * *

He had a mug of tea in his hands. Sherlock had made him tea and was now sitting opposite him at the cleared out kitchen table. How it happened that they were back at Baker Street already was a bit puzzling for John, but he didn’t care; it was such a relief to come inside and into the familiar chaos he called home.

Sherlock hadn’t said much since he had sent him away at the crime scene, but he seemed determined to not leave John alone anymore. The tea had been made during John’s second phone conversation with Dr Sage and thanks to that, John was pretty sure he wouldn’t have to tell Sherlock what had happened. It suited him perfectly.

They were going to send Harry’s body and her belongings to Bart’s so he could claim it there. It seemed as if she had been on vacation, if you could call it that when you couldn’t hold down a job. The toxicology had shown alcohol levels so high that John was surprised she hadn’t passed out earlier, but still just alcohol. It felt like a strange, and irrelevant, comfort that she hadn’t used anything else. Alcohol or methamphetamine, why did it matter?

Sherlock’s reached across the table and touched his hand; it was such a light touch with the fingertips that it tickled more than anything else. It was enough to make John cry. First just a sob, but soon he let go of the mug and covered his face with his hands, his whole body shaking as he did his best to stay quiet. Why this was a priority was hard to say, but it just was! 

Without taking notice of what it might mean, he heard Sherlock’s chair move and just seconds later Sherlock pulled him into a hug. Still sitting on the chair, John gratefully and greedily wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s waist and cried into the soft fabric of his shirt. Sherlock’s hands rested lightly on his shoulder and his back. 

When the lack of oxygen made him dizzy, the tears had been out for a good while, leaving just dry sobbing. Still Sherlock didn’t let go until he did. The space suddenly created between them made John sob again before he did a very vain attempt to dry is eyes with his hands. Sherlock handed him a paper towel which John gratefully accepted. He couldn’t even manage to feel the slightest bit of embarrassment; the cry had made him completely empty.

“I’m going to bed,” he muttered, not knowing and not caring what time it was. Sherlock nodded and through it all, John could still reflect over the fact that he had probably ruined one of Sherlock’s favourite shirts with tears and snot.

He fell asleep almost as soon as he turned off the light; the bliss of sleep was wonderful.

* * *

_John didn’t know what this was supposed to be like. He had been in school his whole life, and now all of a sudden, he wasn’t. All exams were done. All rapports neatly written and handed in. All hours clocked at hospitals and surgeries. Whatever it was supposed to feel like, he was pretty sure guilt wasn’t one of the feelings he was supposed to have._

_Standing at the side line of the greatest argument (tears and broken glasses) in modern time, John couldn’t help but feel that he’d made a bad call and almost lead his sister to slaughter by inviting her and Clara to the graduation party their parents threw for him. He couldn’t gather any sympathy for his parents though, no matter how hard he tried._

_At the other side of the room stood Clara, arms wrapped around herself, eyes directed to the floor as she heard how her future in-laws called her and Harry an abomination, saying that they were never welcomed here in the first place and other really nasty things that John actually never thought his parents were capable of verbalising. If the invitation had been unfair to Harry, it was a terrible injustice to Clara. Harry, lead to slaughter. Clara, pushed straight into a minefield._

_Should he warn Clara about the drinking; the fact that it might become a problem, the fact that it might already be a problem? No, Harry had behaved so well these last months (spared tonight but the circumstances was forgiving) and something like that would surely scare Clara off. It might never become a problem; maybe Harry would behave the rest of her life. Maybe. Hopefully. For the first time he actually considered telling someone though. For the first time he felt that telling someone might protect Harry better than covering it up as he always done._

_John watched his closest family in the middle of the room, both sister and mother crying now, and the rest of the party just standing around, goggling. John hated them all for not interfering, for not stopping this; grown-ups who just stood there, watching how two parents verbally ripped their daughter apart._

_Determined, John walked up to his family, placing himself between his sister and their parents._

_“Go to hell,” he told his parents, hasher than he had planned, but he was satisfied with how silent they became and how shocked they looked before he turned to Harry. She looked so terrible; his heart ached and he felt so ashamed for bringing her here. Tonight, her drinking was entirely his fault._

_“Let’s take Clara and just go home,” he said in a low voice to Harry so no one else would hear, putting her hair behind her ear just as their parents (read: their father) started to go at it again, telling John to not embarrass them – as if they needed the help – and not use that kind of language. Something about honouring your father and your mother, but Sunday school had been such a waste on John._

_“Sod off!” John screamed over his shoulder, making most people in the room jump, before turning back to Harry and leading her out of the room, arm sportingly around her waist. She cried and he whispered apologises and promises of killing their parents. Clara hurried after them and just before leaving, John looked back at his parents – eyes filled with venom – wondering if he could ever forgive them._

_John walked Harry and Clara to his car – it was a long time since John had stopped drinking when Harry was around – and Harry whispered apologies to Clara the entire way there. It was noting John hadn’t heard before, no he had heard all of Harry’s drunken apologises many times, but it was a long time since he had listen to them. The guilt over ruining the night and drinking too much, the promises to never do it again, the declarations of love (he wondered if she had told Clara she loved her before), it all sounded strange when directed at someone else._

_While walking Harry out of the room he had realised that he had a decision to make, or rather that he had made a decision already; he couldn’t let his parents be a part of his life anymore. It came down to a choice between Harry and his parents and no matter how fed up he was with Harry from time to time, or how much he wished to have a life where all the problems were his own and not hers, he could never reward his parents with his company when they treated Harry like this._

_She was his sister and he loved her. It was the law or something. Sure, there was a law stating that he had to love his parents too (besides from the one the Bible his father had said something about), but they had broken the “You must love your children no matter what”-law, so he didn’t feel so ashamed about that._

_Starting tonight, as soon as he left, he would be an orphan with living parents._

* * *

“I’m so sorry, John,” Molly said in her awkward, but oh so thoughtful, way and gave him a just as awkward and thoughtful hug. John did almost nothing to respond to it.

“Thank you, Molly,” he said and put on the same smile he had been giving Mrs Hudson for the last two days. He couldn’t stand their landlady fussing over him and he was pretty sure he’d have the same reaction to Molly.

“I didn’t even know you had a sister.” Molly kept on talking as they walked over to the table where John suspected Harry was. She was obviously nervous and John just kept on smiling because he had nothing to say to that statement. He didn’t have a sister anymore, did he?

“Do you want to see her or… should I make arrangement for… I can do that you know.”

Again, so awkward and thoughtful. So kind. She really deserved someone better than Sherlock or Moriarty. The smile on John’s face felt a bit more genuine for a moment.

“It’s okay, I’ve managed that already.” It had actually been the first thing he had done the morning after he’d found out. “Having her cremated. But yeah…. I’d… I’d like to see her.”

Molly opened the black bag and no matter how much John tried to remain in control of himself he had to close his eyes and look away. He was not ready to see this yet. He just wasn’t.

“Want me to leave you alone for a bit?” 

“Yes, please,” John whispered, rubbing his face.

“Okidokie then, I’ll come back in a bit.”

“Molly, thank you.” John forced himself to look at her again and put on the smile. “Sherlock’s upstairs… if you could bring him when you come back?”

“Of course.” Molly nodded and blushed. His sister was lying dead on a steal table between them and she blushed because he mentioned Sherlock! That was just not right.

He braced himself and waited until the door closed behind Molly before looking down at his sister. The sight almost brought him to his knees and he bit his lip hard. She looked so worn. So battered by life. He remembered her as beautiful, not a Hollywood film star, but beautiful still. Smiling. Smirking. He had never seen this sister, this greyish, old version of the colourful pain-in-the-arse she’d been.

“Damn it, Harry…” he whispered and tried to gather the professional distance he once had been able to place between himself and dead friends. People were not supposed to be able to do that though, he knew that. It had never worked for long after the adrenaline wore off and now he didn’t have any adrenaline to start with so it was outright impossible.

John placed two fingers on her cold cheek, but as if burned by fire he pulled back. A tremble went through his entire body and he wiped his hand on his jeans.

“Damn it, Harry!” He yelled. “Why didn’t you let me help you? If this was your plan all along, couldn’t you just have thrown yourself in the bloody Thames? I could have lent you my gun! It would have been faster! And so much more considerate to me! But you have no idea, have you? You never cared! What it did to me! What it did to Clara!”

He was yelling at a corpse. That realisation made him cry instead, not much but somehow the tears calmed him and he placed his hand on her chest, her coolness going right through him.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “God, Harry. I’m sorry I left, I’m sorry I gave up. I was just so messed up when I got home. That’s no excuse, I should have… I’m sorry, Harry, I was supposed to be on your side.”

They had been each other’s only family for years. Sure, Harry had had Clara – wonderful, wonderful Clara, John still hadn’t really forgiving Harry for messing that up – for a while, but it wasn’t the same. John had given up his relationship with their parents for her sake. He had picked her over their parents and she had picked the bottle over him. Still it was he who apologised, because he felt he hadn’t done enough. He’d left, first the country and then her. He had left to help others and failed to help her; his own sister. Wasn’t she worth more?

“Want some more time?” Molly asked as she knocked and opened the door at the same time. John quickly withdrew his hand.

“No it’s hrm…” John cleared his throat and dried his eyes as discreetly as he could before turning around; failing to put on the smile. “It’s okay.”

Molly pushed the door open and John saw Sherlock standing one step behind her. He looked calm, composed, very Sherlock. Nothing in his face told that anything was out of the ordinary and John was ever so grateful. Still, he knew that Lestrade had called him three times before they came here (apparently there had been another body) and the fact that Sherlock was still here, not even looking eager to get away, made John warm again.

* * *

__**To:** John H. Watson  
 **From:** Clara Shaw-Watson  
 **Subject:** I’m sorry  
 _I’m sorry, I should have written more often. I just don’t know what to write anymore because I can’t write what I need to write. You know?_

_I need to tell you something because I can’t handle it, but I cannot tell you, you’re in freaking Afghanistan, saving people who would die without you! And you really shouldn’t have to deal with this. And I know I can’t send you this and expect you to drop it, so I suppose I do this to force myself to say it._

_I’m so, so sorry…You did this for so long and I really, really should handle this better._

_She’s drinking again. I don’t know what to do. It’s been going on for so long but I couldn’t tell you. You were leaving for Afghanistan for Christ sake! And I thought I could handle it and that it would get better, but it just gets worse and worse and I can’t pretend it’s not happening._

_What should I do? What can I do?_

_I’m so sorry I didn’t say anything sooner and I’m sorry I’m saying it now and I’m sorry I’m burdening you with this because I know there is nothing you can do from there._

_Please just come home safe. Please, please, please come home safe._

_//Clara  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

_“Damn it, Harry….” John whispered to the computer screen. A feeling of desperation started to spread in his body as he took a moment and sighed into his hands._

_He’d thought it had been fine, that all had been good. He had been so happy; Clara was so good for her. They’d got her sober, she had got herself sober. Just a couple of months ago he and Clara had exchanged e-mails, joking about insemination and him kidnapping Afghani orphans for her and Harry to adopt. She had asked him to help him pick out the colour for the goddamn nursery…._

_What had happened in the months between? Or wait….He read the mail again and his heart sank; “You were leaving for Afghanistan for Christ sake!” It had started before he’d left. And he hadn’t seen it, hadn’t seen a thing._

_There was nothing he could do now. Not from here. Damn it, Harry, it had all been going so well, hadn’t it? What had gone wrong? He didn’t understand._

_He needed to answer Clara, say some comforting words that would mean nothing in the end. He just had to, but he couldn’t. Instead he just kept staring on the one line that said that he’d missed it, that he had failed them both. If he thought it would have helped, he would have punched the screen._

_Way to ruin a perfectly fine day in the war, Harry. She had to be the only person able to do that._

* * *

What did you say when someone handed you a plain container with your sister’s ashes? It was a very surreal feeling. Very surreal. This coming from the man who, more than once, had found a human head in his fridge. 

“Thank you,” John settled on, because he had manners, and nodded slightly before he left.

Now what would he do with his sister’s remains? Once upon a time, he and Harry had been raised catholic (or maybe “catholic”) but seeing as that upbringing might actually be part of the reason for all this, John was pretty sure Harry didn’t want anything to do with any church in her afterlife.

Still, it felt like a funeral was what he was supposed to arrange and no matter how hard he tried, he still thought of a church every time. Christianity was just so entwined in everything in the English society that he couldn’t escape it even if he wanted to. Subconsciously, it pulled him back in. 

Jesus – more of a manipulative bitch than Sherlock.

“Should I take her?”

It sounded strange to hear Sherlock refer to an inane object like that, sometimes he didn’t even extend that courtesy to living people. He had followed him here under the pretence of trying to get some “leftovers”. John found that excuse disturbing.

“No.” John shook his head and looked at the container; he hadn’t even bothered to order a proper urn. Harry wouldn’t care, but he cared a little right now.

“What are you going to do with her?”

“I was thinking about placing it next to the skull,” John said thoughtfully and when he realised he had made a joke he forced a smile to accompany it. “I have no idea. Should I call our parents? Should I call Clara?”

“You want to call Clara,” Sherlock said. 

John nodded, yes he’d very much like to call Clara. But was it fair to her? He had no idea on what terms she and Harry had split. He didn’t want to call their parents though, but he felt obligated to. Not that they had any right or claim over Harry anymore.

* * *

_“I thought you were going to pick me up at the airport?” John had managed to let himself into Harry’s flat. The cabbie had given him a helping hand with the luggage up the stairs and John was very grateful – it was hard with an injured shoulder, a cane and a messed up leg. And a sister who apparently couldn’t sober up for three hours to come and pick him up at the airport when he returned home from the bloody war!_

_“John!” Harry almost tripped over herself to come and throw herself around his neck. “I’m so sorry! I thought you said you’d come on Monday!”_

_“It is Monday,” John informed her, but answered the hug to his best ability. It was something so familiar and something so safe with being home with her right now. All this time away… he had missed her. He really had._

_“Bloody hell, you look terrible!” She informed him when she backed away._

You too, sis, you too.

_“Does it hurt a lot? Are you in pain?”_

Yes.

_“And I thought you got shot in the shoulder, not the leg!”_

I was. Long story.

_“John, say something! You’re kinda freaking me out…”_

_“How much have you been drinking today?” Maybe not the best thing to start with, but it was the only thing playing in his head. When he looked passed her into the flat, he saw paper bags with hidden bottles._

_“Stop playing Dr Hero,” she mocked him, making a joke out it as always. “You’re home now!”_

_He looked at her as she towed his bags into the flat, talking about where they should go for dinner. This wasn’t going to work._

* * *

There was a Garden of Remembrance in the corner of the cemetery; a small one, didn’t look like much to the world, but somewhere, someone had scattered the remains of Harriet Watson. John hadn’t been present, but he had picked the garden at least. Finally. 

For three weeks Harry had actually shared the top of the mantle with the skull. Morbid yes, but now she was somewhere else. Somewhere in the garden. Hopefully at peace.

John stood at the entrance with an arm around Clara’s waist. He had finally gathered the courage to call her and now the two persons who probably cared the most for Harry stood in silence and looked at the roses. Sure, Harry had friends, both sober and non-sober ones, but her drinking friends John couldn’t stand and the sober ones…To be honest, John hadn’t tried to locate anyone.

This strange, slightly awkward, moment of silence was the only funeral Harriet Watson would get. Clara had wanted to read a poem, but faced with the situation she settled on just placing it next to the small plaque outside with Harry’s name on.

“I loved her,” Clara said, almost as a confession and lay her head on John’s shoulder.

“I did too,” he whispered and wondered if Harry had known that.

* * *

_It wasn’t an argument anymore. It was a staring competition which neither of them had planned to lose. John had to wonder what in God’s name he had been thinking, between his PTSD and Harry’s drinking there was no room for a harmonious living arrangement._

_“What do you want me to do?” Harry asked._

_John had to gather all his strength not to snap again. “To stop drinking! I want you to stop drinking!”_

_“It’s not a problem!”_

_“Are you blind?” John yelled. “It has cost you your job, it has cost you your wife… and if you’re not careful, it’s going to cost you a brother!”_

_“Who’re you kidding?” she asked in return. “Where the fuck would you go?”_

_“They offer me accommodations.” – Why, oh why hadn’t he taken the nice army up on their offer? Maybe he’d actually been able to stand his sister then? – “It’s not like I’m depended on you for anything!”_

_“Well fuck you then! I don’t need you either! Not you, not your God-complex, not anything!”_

_“Go to hell, Harry!”_

_She slammed the door behind her as she left. John had all his things out of her flat by the time she came back and didn’t bother to pick up the phone when she called._

* * *

“How do you feel?” Sherlock asked as soon as John walked into the sitting-room and practically fell down on the sofa.

“I’ll be okay.” John sighed and stared at the place where Harry had been sitting for the last three weeks. “Clara and I actually went out and had a drink in her memory. It felt… strangely appropriate.”

“Do you want some tea?” 

“Yes, please.” John gave him an almost peaceful smile; he was too emotionally drained right now to manage a real emotion. “You’ve been pretty good at making tea lately.”

“Basic chemistry,” Sherlock said. John smiled a bit wider, it was really hard to argue with that.

“Thank you,” John said when Sherlock came back with his tea.

“It’s just basic chemistry,” Sherlock repeated and shrugged.

“No, Sherlock.” John shook his head and held his gaze. “Thank you, for...”

“You’re welcome,” Sherlock said, freeing him from finishing the sentence and added after a short silence. “You shouldn’t blame yourself.”

“I don’t. So much… Anymore.” John extended the sentence until Sherlock looked satisfied with the answer. It was the truth, he didn’t. Still there were so many things he wished he could still say to her, so many things he could take back. So many things he could have done to help. More than once he had wished that he could have been her Mycroft.

Which reminded him, he couldn’t make peace with Harry but that didn’t mean it was too late for everyone.

“Do me one last favour?” John asked and Sherlock looked up with raised brows. “Call Mycroft.”

John braced himself for the long persuasion process that would follow, but Sherlock just turned back to his article.

“I did that yesterday.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's POV.

Finally something had come along to distract him from the fact that Moriarty was still running around in the world. To be honest, Sherlock had started to miss him and that was also something he needed to be distracted from. People could say whatever they wanted, but Moriarty was never boring. Still, Sherlock knew it was wrong to miss him.

Now this crime scene! 

London had a new serial killer – yes, yes, John had told him it was a bad thing – who seemed to have a taste for American backpackers living at a specific hostel in Paddington. That really narrowed down the victim pool and one could think it would do the same with the suspect pool… but it didn’t! And that’s why it was great!

Or bad. 

Whatever. 

The victim had been strangled with some type of noose – probably a belt just like the rest – and left three blocks away from the hostel. Nothing seemed to be removed from the body, but the watch was still set to CST. Or EST? Either way, the man hadn’t been here very long if he hadn’t bothered resetting his watch. Was that important? Probably not, hard to tell and— What on earth was that?

Annoyed, Sherlock looked up at the sound of a ringing phone. John’s phone.

”John! Answer your phone!” Sherlock ordered. “I can’t think with that – what on earth is that even? It sounds like a children’s telly show! You’re supposed to be a grown man, use a proper ringtone.”

Sherlock saw John’s slightly amused smile and frowned. No respect, whatsoever. At least he left and Sherlock could turn back to the corpse, crouching by its side. 

“At least use gloves,” Lestrade pleaded, holding out a pair of latex gloves. 

“Not touching.”

“Please.”

Sherlock gave the DI a look but snatched the gloves anyway. 

“I’m not going to be the one contaminating this scene, and you very well know it,” Sherlock said but put the gloves on – and not just to humour Lestrade. Once he had them on he traced the bruising around the victim’s neck; nothing extraordinary but he was quite sure he felt the marks of the belt-buckle. And there was a necklace, crucifix – motive? No.

“Well?” 

“Don’t rush me,” Sherlock said, standing up and tossing the gloves to Anderson as he pulled them off. “You do want this out of the tourist brochures, right?”

“Personally I wouldn’t shed that many tears if the number of tourists decreases some, but I know a lot of other people who would find it tragic,” Lestrade said. “Well?”

“So far I mostly have the information you can get from the passport I presume you have, or can get,” Sherlock said, waving his hand dismissively. “He’s in his early twenties, from the south or central US, Christian – I’d guess catholic – obviously not a robbery. Strangled in the same way as the previous ones and I can’t see anything missing so far. The women were from North Carolina and Colorado, right?”

“Right.”

“Why Americans?” Sherlock shook his head, not actually addressing Lestrade anymore. “Not even Mycroft is upset about the tea anymore.”

“Well, we’re in a war with them right now,” said Lestrade in an attempt to speed up the history lesson.

“Yes _with_ them, not _against_ them and if his discriminating factor is war alliances he’d been killing off most of our tourists.”

Lestrade sighed. “Anything else?” 

“Obviously there’s something else.” Sherlock snorted. “I just don’t know what yet because I’m constantly interrupted, but make sure to check the transfers and I’d like to have a copy of the toxicology report.”

“You do remember we don’t work for you?” Lestrade asked.

“But you do, I pay taxes.” Sherlock smirked – it became a bit wider when he saw the glare Lestrade gave him. This case became better and better by the minute. He turned around to see where John was off to. “John!”

Right. 

Childish ringtone – he would change that for him as soon as they got home. While pondering what tune to choose Sherlock scanned the area to see where John had disappeared. As soon as he found his blogger he realised that something was wrong; the phone call was over but John hadn’t come back to the crime scene. Instead he was leaning against the wall and staring into space. 

“Sherlock!” Lestrade tried to sound authoritarian as Sherlock left the scene and ducked under the yellow tape. It sounded more weary though.

An unsettling feeling spread from Sherlock’s gut as he approached John, something was most defiantly wrong. John looked devastated, almost lobotomized in his blank stare. What had happened? He had been gone for five minutes. At most! The phone call, of course, but who had called? What news had managed to break him like this?

Sherlock had been around messy crime scenes often enough to recognise shock and paralysing grief when he saw it, even if he mostly found it disturbing. Seeing it written all over John was tremendously troubling: John had lost something, a someone most likely.

“John?” Sherlock said in a low voice, strategically placing himself to hide John from the people at the crime scene. It always made John uncomfortable when people saw him during weak moments. Sherlock knew that from the times when the PTSD grabbed a hold of him and now he didn’t want to discomfort to be add to the grief that almost made John slide down the wall. “What’s happened?”

“Please stop,” John asked, voice hoarse with tears, shaking his head and looking away from him. “Go back to Lestrade.”

Sherlock looked at him for a while, torn between a will to figure out what had happened so he could fix it and his wish to obey John’s request. If he didn’t want him around during nightmares and other episodes, this was probably worse. John wanted to, needed to, be alone. Sherlock should let him.

For now.

Without a word he turned around and walked back to Lestrade, who, apparently, had done nothing in the meantime.

“What’s happening?” Lestrade asked like an echo of Sherlock’s own question and Sherlock had to look back at his friend.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Let’s wrap this up.”

“It’s you we’re waiting for,” Lestrade said, but Sherlock had tuned out already. 

It took some time, and a real effort, to refocus but he managed and when they had turned the body for him he could see that the young man’s shoelaces had been tied by two different people. It was impossible to tell which one the victim had tied himself and which had been re-tied by the killer – or if either of them were tied by the victim. 

Why?

“Remove his shoes,” Sherlock ordered Donovan who happened to pass by, but she just handed him a fresh pair of gloves accompanied with a ‘you-must-be-shitting-me’-look. Sherlock gave her an unimpressed smile but got down to it. 

“What are you doing?” Lestrade asked, the sigh just barely concealed.

“Schy!” Sherlock waved him off and placed the shoes carefully by the side of the body. This… this was devastatingly interesting! Why had the killer bothered to put the shoe back on? Had the victim lost it during a chase? Had the killer done something to the foot? No, not that Sherlock could see. Maybe Molly could? He should pop by later, hear if she could let him examine it.

“Why bother to put the shoe back on?” Sherlock asked the crime scene, but no one answered. Of course they didn’t, only John ever did that. John… Sherlock looked over his shoulder, reminded of John’s phone call, and saw John squatting with his back against the wall and his hands hiding his face. 

Was he crying?

“The killer tied one of the victim’s shoes,” Sherlock told Lestrade as he got to his feet. “I have no idea why, I couldn’t get anything from the feet. I don’t even know if it’s important, but he did. The women, what type of shoes were they wearing?”

“Can’t remember,” Lestrade said. Sherlock snorted, but his eyes wandered off to John again. He needed to get him back to Baker Street.

“Send me the toxicology report and all of their travel logs,” Sherlock repeated as he started to walk away from the scene and when he lifted the yellow tape he turned to Lestrade again. “And ask them to take a look at his feet. Preferably, let it be Ms Hooper.”

Lestrade didn’t call him back this time. He had probably seen John almost sitting on the pavement too. 

As he walked over to John, Sherlock had the distinct feeling he had handled this poorly but he didn’t know exactly where and when it had gone wrong. Pondering this he stopped a foot away, just looking down at his hapless friend. 

Right. Just standing here would probably not make it better.

He got down next to John and reached hesitantly for his shoulder, pulling back as soon as John removed his hand from his face. Christ! John looked like a wreck. For a moment they just stared at each other, as deer caught headlights, none of them fully capable in the situation. It was strange, two otherwise so resourceful men both paralysed by feelings – one by grief and the other by unfamiliar insufficiency – until Sherlock realised he needed to be the one doing something. 

Cab. Baker Street. Go.

To his surprise, John followed when he got up and stood swaying beside him as he flagged down a cab. Sherlock wanted to look, wanted to peer at John until he figured out what news had hurt him so, but he resisted, remembering that John didn’t wanted to be goggled at when he was upset. He settled on putting his hand on John’s back, gently guiding him into the cab, to reassure him that John was there physically even if not mentally.

Back at Baker Street, where John had more possibilities to hide than he’d had in the cab, Sherlock allowed himself to take a closer look. Unfortunately, the source of the grief was impossible to unravel just by looking. There was always guessing, but getting it wrong seemed as too big a risk right now. The situation was delicate and Sherlock knew he was miles away from his comfort zone. He had started to rely on John to tell him what to do (or rather what not to do) in these kinds of situations, but it was quite obvious that he was on his own today.

_What would John do?_

Tea. 

John would make tea. It was a very interesting tic he had, almost a cliché. Like the Queen or the local pub. Well, the average adult Britt had almost four cups of tea a day. Wonder how many John had had already today, two? Maybe he wanted coffee instead? They had coffee. Did they have a coffee maker? Sherlock had just found a box of ginger tea – Why was that allowed to exist? It should be tossed! – when he heard John’s voice from the sitting-room. He froze and, unknowingly, leaned a bit towards the sitting-room to listen in on what had to be a phone conversation.

“Can I speak to Dr Sage?”

John’s voice sounded very pressed but still professional. John Watson, the doctor. A trained role, a façade he was used to. Sherlock knew that version of John. It was the John who patched him up when he had got himself into trouble, the one that existed before John either started to scold him or became completely silent. Both secondary reactions meant the same thing Sherlock had come to understand: John cared about him and his risky behaviour upset him. 

“Yes, hello… er… this is John Watson again.”

No doctor? He called a hospital but not as Dr Watson, this was personal. Well, Sherlock might have known that already but now it was confirmed beyond doubts. It was also quite clear to Sherlock that this Dr Sage had been the one calling John earlier.

“Pretend I’m not her brother, pretend I’m her doctor.”

Harry.

Why hadn’t he figured that out? 

Frustrated with himself Sherlock disposed of the ginger tea – maybe he should ask Mycroft to arrange a tea party in Boston, Lincolnshire – and took out another appalling tea instead. What was wrong with just regular tea, John?

“Have you had time to do a tox—“ John’s voice broke off but Sherlock couldn’t tell if he was unable to continue or if he had been interrupted. He hoped for the latter, but that would indicate a rude person on the other end which wasn’t good either. John didn’t need that now.

He should really boil some water, it was crucial for the tea-making-process. 

“Is it possible to… Can you have her sent to Bart’s? Ehm…. Preferably Ms Molly Hooper. Yes, she’s a… she’s a friend. Of-of mine, not of Harriet’s.”

Sherlock couldn’t help that he smiled briefly. They were just sending bodies to Molly from all over the place tonight. Involving Molly could just mean one thing though: Harry was dead. How unfortunate. 

“No there’s no one else, our parents are dead.”

That was a lie! Not that they had any part in John’s life, but Sherlock knew for a fact they were still alive because he had tracked them down during a slow weekend. 

Why did John lie? That wasn’t like him. Or, it was, but not to colleagues. 

Baffled and confused Sherlock finished his tea-making (two cups, even though he had no intention of drinking his) which made him miss the last bits of the conversation. It probably wasn’t more than some thank-yous and good-byes, anyway. Making tea was meditative he had to admit. Maybe that was why John did it so often: to clear his head from all the things Sherlock constantly got them into? No, John enjoyed most of the things they got into. Not that he would admit to it if asked, but Sherlock knew. 

At the same time as Sherlock picked up the mugs to bring them to the sitting-room John slowly entered the kitchen, phone still in hand, so instead Sherlock placed the mugs on the table. The table was cluttered with papers and books but Sherlock did a swift job clearing it. Throwing, piling, even a quick wipe with a dishcloth that smelled acceptable, because cleaning was a task he knew how to do (even if he rarely engaged in the activity) and looking at John right now made him insecure and he couldn’t stand that.

Sherlock peeked at the article at the top of the cleaned-away pile. _A perspective of the binding change mechanism for ATP synthesis_ by PD Boyer, it was a classic – Sherlock liked this paper, a well-earned Nobel Prize if he had ever seen one. It would be nice to curl up in the corner of the sofa with the mug of tea he had made and re-read it. Even nicer to accompany the dead American tourist to Bart’s. 

He would settle on just getting John to not look as if he was falling apart.

John sat down (maybe “fell” or “collapsed” would be more suitable verbs to describe the action) at the table. He let go off his phone and slowly wrapped his hands around one of the mugs. The green one, Sherlock had noticed that he had grown rather fond of that mug for some reason and he made a mental note about it. Never had he thought he’d actually be in a position when he would use that information. He sat down at the opposite side of the table form John, mimicking his treatment of the tea mug. It was obvious by the short glance John gave him that he knew Sherlock knew what had happened. 

Sherlock hopped John was all right with that.

The silence grew long, the only thing breaking it was the sporadic dripping from the sink tap. None of them touched their tea and while Sherlock forced himself to look at John, hoping he’d see something to help him figure out what to do next, John just kept staring down the mug. It was obvious he was supposed to do something, that John wanted him to do something, otherwise he would leave. 

Sherlock wasn’t good at comforting people. Truth be told, he wasn’t sure he knew how to and the last thing he wanted was to make a mistake and make everything worse. Still he had to do something because this, this didn’t work.

Tentatively, he reached across the table and gave John’s hand a light touch. Since they both had been gripping the tea mugs for a while Sherlock could just barely feel the touch at all due to the calluses the violin playing had created on his fingertips. John must have felt it though, because as soon as their hands touched a sob went through John’s entire body. It was as instant as pressing a button and had it been someone other than John, Sherlock would have found that rather fascinating. Instead it generated a trembling breath as John let go of the mug and covered his face with his hands, his whole body shaking at every suppressed sob.

Why did he try to muffle the sounds? Crying was a natural effect of grief, John shouldn’t feel ashamed by it. Was it a masculinity thing? It was inherent response, even though it – to Sherlock’s present knowledge – wasn’t proven to have any positive effect. John shouldn’t feel the need to hide it.

To prove this, and reacting to an impulse he didn’t know he had, Sherlock got up from the chair and walked around the table. With none of his earlier hesitation, Sherlock placed an arm over John’s shoulders and pulled him into a hug.

John’s response was immediate and he wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s waist and cried into his shirt. Sherlock made sure to place both of his hands on John, one on his shoulder, one on his back, lightly enough for John to be able to withdraw whenever he wanted but still something for comfort or acceptance or whatever John needed it to be. 

The time passed slowly as John shook under his hands, but Sherlock was afraid to move even the slightest. He got the distinct feeling that he was doing something right. John didn’t let go and his crying grew louder as Sherlock’s shirt became wetter. It was far from a perfect situation, but at least Sherlock felt a bit useful. He forced his mind to wander – to think about the re-tied shoe, to list the electron configuration of the elements in the periodic table, to plan his limited time in the laboratory next week – because lingering in John’s sorrow and grief was overwhelming. 

Twelve drops from the sink later – roughly 20 minutes Sherlock estimated – John ran out of tears, but obviously not of crying. It was a fascinating, but sad, fact that his body couldn’t produce enough tears to cover his sorrow. A prolonged cry could lead to hypoxia though, so maybe it was better to just have it ebb away? 

When John’s grip around his waist loosened Sherlock let his hands slide away and he tilted his head to see if John felt better or worse now. It was impossible to tell. John’s eyes were red and puffy, there were tears and snot everywhere and, quite frankly, he looked like a complete mess. He looked tired and sad, like he had given up, but he didn’t look as tortured as before. Nor as restrained.

That must be a good thing, right?

“I’m going to bed,” John muttered after drying his eyes and blowing his nose in the paper towel Sherlock gave him and Sherlock couldn’t other than nod, reflecting over the fact that he hadn’t said a word since he left Lestrade at the crime scene. 

Was that something he had done right or something he had done wrong?

It didn’t matter, John went to his bedroom and left Sherlock alone in the kitchen with his soaked shirt. The cleaner would probably be able to do something about that, Sherlock thought as he removed it and hung it over the chair where John had sat. Not that it mattered, he had more shirts.

After fetching his robe (he found it under the desk) he re-heated his tea and brought it back to the sofa along with John’s phone. To be able to help John – and he had to help John – he needed more information. What better way to get that than calling Dr Sage again?

* * *

New tip. Lift. Fill. Empty. Dispose tip.

Repeat. 

New tip. Lift. Fill. Empty. Dispose tip.

Repeat. 

Pipetting also had something meditative about it and Sherlock had done this forty times now. Mechanical. Muscle memory. Only brain work necessary was to adjust the settings in the beginning and remember which well to put the content in. Maybe keep in mind to change the tip too. A trained monkey could do it. 

It was not a completely unnecessary test he was conducting, but there were far more interesting things to do. Like going to the crime scene Lestrade had wanted him to see. There had been another murder. Sherlock would lie if he said he didn’t want to be there, but he was here, at Bart’s, pipetting, mindlessly repeating the same motion over and over again while John was downstairs in the morgue. 

His phone buzzed. 

Lestrade was sending him crime scene pictures, that man was such a tease! Well, Sherlock _had_ asked him to send pictures when he finally had answered the DI’s calls to have him stop calling. It was very hard not to go there, but he knew he needed to be here for John and so did Lestrade. Therefore, pictures came buzzing with an uneven frequency.

Would he be able to stay if he allowed himself to look at them?

Lestrade would probably not photograph the right things anyway. There would be more murders, he’d get the chance to catch up. John would most likely find that thought disturbing. 

Maybe not at the moment. 

Better not find out. 

“Knock, knock,” Molly said as she opened the door and actually knocked twice on the door. How very redundant.

“Where’s John?” Sherlock asked as he disposed of a tip.

“Downstairs,” Molly said, she looked sad. Why was she sad? Because Harry was dead? Because a woman she had never met was dead? Her empathy was remarkable! Unpractical, but remarkable.

“Have you examined the body?”

“John’s sister?” Molly looked quite shocked and Sherlock felt a bit confused. 

“No, the American.”

“Oh… Right.” Molly walked over to him and took a notepad from her lab coat. “Not much, had just released the report when, well, John’s sister came. Checked the reports on the women though, to see if there were any similarities. On the feet, I mean.”

God she talked a lot.

“On the first one there was nothing noted, but both the second one and the man you sent me had fallen arches. That can’t be relevant, can it?” 

“No, it probably isn’t.” Sherlock shook his head and looked at his phone which buzzed again.

“Are you done soon?”

Odd, she never asked him things like that. Why this time?

Oh. 

John.

Sherlock looked at the test he had started. He needed to fill up five more wells, incubate it half an hour and then repeat everything again. It had taken time to get to this point and the process had been tedious, aborting now would make it a complete waste of time. 

John was alone downstairs with his dead sister and Lestrade was sending crime scene photos to his phone. The wasted time was a very low priority.

“I’m done now,” he decided and handed her the tray of wells. “Can you dispose of this while I wipe down the table top. It’s just ovalbumin and gliadin diluted with PBS.”

She obeyed in her usual manner as Sherlock made sure he’d corked every bottle and then he wiped the table top with disinfection solution. 

“He looked so lost,” Molly said when they walked down to the morgue. She was not very good with silences, no. “Can’t imagine what I would do if one of my sisters died like that. Brothers and sisters, you know, you love them and you hate them and you love them all at once.”

Sherlock made a point out of not answering. It would be insane to encourage her chatting. Did she have a point though, about sibling relationships? John had specifically told him that he and Harry never had got along, but could he still love her? Obviously her death affected him a lot, so he did still care for her in some way. Did he himself love Mycroft? That… really wasn’t anything he could spend time unpacking right now.

“Want some more time?” Molly wondered as she knocked on the door to the morgue. Why did she knock if she had already opened the door?

“No it’s hrm… It’s okay.” John answered from inside. Their eyes met and Sherlock felt a strange relief when he saw the gratitude in John’s. He had made the right decision, both when he had declined coming to the crime scene and when he had abandoned the test upstairs.

He was almost getting good at this!

* * *

Sherlock sat next to John on the sofa, pretending to read _Caenorhabditis elegans: the cell lineage and beyondd_ by JE Sulston while John zapped through the channels for the fourth time without finding anything he deemed worthy his time. From time to time Sherlock gave him concerned looks from the corner of his eye. John didn’t seem interested in anything anymore and it worried him.

Every time he had glanced at John, his eyes then wandered over to the mantle where John had placed Harry’s ashes next to the skull. She had been there for three weeks now. Three weeks, next to the skull. Even though they had joked about it, Sherlock found it morbid. Sure, he had the skull and yes, he called the skull his friend, but he had bought it like that, he had never known the actually person.

What John was doing could not be healthy! 

Sherlock just didn’t know what to do to help John anymore. It was obvious that he wasn’t the right person for this, at all, and he was painfully aware of his shortcomings. It was very stressful to not be able to do anything to ease John’s pain, but at least he had managed to get him call Clara. Clara could probably be of better help, all Sherlock did was to make tea and make sure there was food in the flat (Mrs Hudson reminded him from time to time). Clara was probably the reason they were going to have a burial tomorrow.

Maybe that was why John kept changing channels? 

The tourist case was over and Sherlock and Lestrade had come to the agreement that the DI was to keep all further temptation from Sherlock for the time being. Disappointingly, they had never got an answer about the shoes – not that Lestrade cared. It had ended with suicide-by-cop. Sherlock hated when that happened.

They both jumped when Sherlock’s phone rang. 

“I have to take this,” Sherlock excused himself when he saw the name on the screen. John looked back at the telly and nodded with the same amount of lacking interest as he watched the commercial about juice. It hurt Sherlock to see, but he didn’t have time to ponder the subject for long since the phone was still ringing.

“Thank you for calling me back,” he used as a greeting when he closed the bedroom door behind him.

“Of course,” Mycroft said on the other end. “Sorry it took so long, there was a… well, I assume you don’t really care.”

“No, I really don’t,” Sherlock said as he sank down on the edge of his bed, feeling a strange knot forming in his stomach.

“So, what’s the occasion?” Mycroft wondered and Sherlock was sure he detected a trace of worry in the voice. Not completely groundless Sherlock had to admit, because the times he had called his brother without being in trouble these last years were few.

“I…” Sherlock tried but was unable to say what he had planned. He had actually no idea what he had intended to say anymore and he was fairly sure it wasn’t because it had taken his brother seven hours to call him back. It was just… something. These last three weeks had been… He was so tired and he felt so helpless and terrible. 

All he wanted was for John to be all right but he saw how the guilt almost suffocated him. For the life of him, Sherlock couldn’t see why John blamed himself so. He just couldn’t see it, probably because he didn’t care the way John did. 

Not even the way Mycroft did.

“Yes?” Mycroft prompted. 

“I’m all right,” he said in a quiet, slightly trembling voice that he wasn’t sure would be audible on Mycroft’s side of this conversation. A long silence followed which Sherlock had no intention to break. He honestly didn’t know if he could.

“Is there a reason you shouldn’t be?”

It was impossible to get anything from Mycroft’s voice this time, but Mycroft was always disturbingly hard to read. 

“No,” Sherlock fell back on his bed and stared at the ceiling. He wondered what Mycroft knew about what had happened at Baker Street these last weeks, if he knew enough to understand what Sherlock thought he was trying to say. Hopefully Mycroft had other hobbies than spying on him, but Sherlock saw a disturbing parallel between John keeping Harry on the mantle and Mycroft’s surveillance. 

He hoped Mycroft wouldn’t keep him above the fireplace if he died.

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

There was the trace of worry again. If he should be completely honest, then maybe he wasn’t all right. In all ways Mycroft needed to worry he was fine though. Had he been wrong to call without a manuscript?

“Yes,” he said. This had turned out to be a rather strange conversation. “I shouldn’t keep you. I’m sure you have people to extradite.”

“Not this week.”

Sherlock snorted. Mycroft’s sense of humour was odd, had always been odd, would most likely always be odd. The problem was that he wasn’t sure his brother was joking this time. 

“Good bye, Mycroft.”

“Sherlock…” Mycroft’s sigh was the last thing Sherlock heard before hanging up and he tossed it beside him on the bed. Still with his eyes focused on the same spot on the ceiling he started to count backwards from 100. At 71, his phone rang and he fumbled to find it again.

“What?” he sighed.

“Did you need anything?”

“Not from you.”

“Well, if you do…”

“…I just have to ask as long as it’s not illegal,” Sherlock finished the sentence. Not that Mycroft was a stranger to bending the rules to fit his purpose (even a law or two if Sherlock wasn’t wrong) but he had never been keen of Sherlock doing the same.

“Good bye, Sherlock.”

“Yes.”

He heard Mycroft hanging up and he let the phone slip out of his hand. A moment later he picked it up and dialled Mycroft’s number again. This was ridiculous and even though he was aware it was partly (or entirely) his fault, he got annoyed.

“Yes?” Mycroft sounded so irritatingly smug that Sherlock hung up right away. 

Mycroft called him back. He waited four signals before picking up, but he didn’t say a word.

“Entertaining as this is, Sherlock…” Mycroft didn’t sound entertained, he sounded weary. On purpose to get something or genuinely tired? Sherlock couldn’t tell. 

He remained quite even though he had realised what he wanted to tell Mycroft. What he needed to tell him. Unfortunately he couldn’t. No way could he tell his brother that if he died he shouldn’t blame himself. His death would not be Mycroft’s fault, but he couldn’t free him from a guilt he didn’t yet have. 

“I have been clean for more than six years,” he said, admitting to an unsettling similarity between himself and Harry: they were both addicts. He wasn’t sure his death would put Mycroft through what John went through right now, but he knew he didn’t want to do that to anyone. Not even his brother. 

Maybe especially not his brother.

“Are you having trouble staying that way?”

Now there was real concern there. Worry and concern. Perhaps he could put Mycroft through what John was going through.

“I said I was fine,” Sherlock muttered. “You don’t have to worry.”

“It’s not a choice, it’s a privilege.”

“Have I told you lately what a tremendous idiot you are?” Sherlock sighed deeply.

“Not in a while, no.”

“You’re a tremendous idiot.”

“You too.”

Sherlock waited a moment before hanging up. Once more he counted backwards from 100 and when he reached 0 without his brother calling him back he knew the phone call was over. He felt strange and couldn’t figure out why.

There was no time to think about it though, he had left John alone for too long. He didn’t like the thought of John being alone, especially not in a room with Harry’s ashes and his skull. Again: morbid.

Tea, he should make tea. John always made the tea before, but never now. He should go out and make John tea and force him to watch one of the stupid films he liked. Had they eaten tonight? Yes, he had made pasta. Or was that yesterday? No it was today. He was fairly sure. 

Just tea then. 

John hardly even looked at him when he came back. Sherlock wondered if he had noticed that he had been gone at all.

* * *

John should be back by now. This funeral – or whatever it was called – had taken too long. Sherlock stood in the window and looked out over Baker Street, hoping to see John come at any moment. He had been standing there for close to one hour now. Something was wrong. He could feel it.

Somewhere in the planning process they had come to the silent agreement that Sherlock wouldn’t accompany John and Clara to this, his presence there would, without a doubt, have made all of them uncomfortable. Now Sherlock regretted that he hadn’t followed, he was a master of disguises, John would never have known. 

Should he call Lestrade and report John missing? 

Should he call Mycroft? 

Finally John became visible and Sherlock felt relieved when he saw that he was just as neatly dressed and moved unharmed along the pavement. Nothing had happened. At least nothing involving criminals or suicides or accidents or anything else terrible Sherlock had had the time to come up with as reasons for the delay.

To not be spotted in the window Sherlock hurried over to one of the chairs and picked up the first thing he happened to reach: _The logic of chemical synthesis_ by EJ Corey, another classic. That would do. John would never notice that he had read this same article earlier this month. 

“How do you feel?” Sherlock asked as soon as John walked into the sitting-room and practically fell down on the sofa. He didn’t look to be in any more pain now than when he left. Good. 

“I’ll be okay.” John sighed with a nod and stared at the place where Harry had been sitting until today. “Clara and I actually went out and had a drink in her memory. It felt… strangely appropriate.”

Yes, ‘strangely appropriate’ might be a good description for when the brother and ex-wife of a deceased woman who died of alcohol poisoning had a drink after her funeral.

“Do you want some tea?” Sherlock put down the article and did his very best not to stare and deduce anything that John didn’t want him to know. It was painfully hard because he couldn’t do the right things if he didn’t have all the facts.

Therefore he had to make tea.

Again.

“Yes, please.” John smiled an almost peaceful smile. Sherlock felt a jolt of relief at the smile. John smiled. A good smile. A real smile. A reassuring smile. 

“You’ve been pretty good at making tea lately,” John added as Sherlock made his way to the kitchen.

“Basic chemistry,” Sherlock shrugged, still caught in the relieved knowledge that it would all be all right again. Just because he hadn’t made that much tea before didn’t mean he didn’t know how to. John’s wants and needs for tea always forestall his own and therefore he had never been the one suggesting it before. Simple as that. Lately it just had become his duty to make sure John got his tea. Because John hadn’t cared about that lately.

In the kitchen Sherlock was quite pleased to find that there was no ginger tea in the flat anymore. Hardly any of John’s strange teas remained since he had taken over the purchases. Sadly (but actually hopefully) it would soon go back to normal.

“Thank you,” John said when Sherlock came back with the tea.

“It’s just basic chemistry,” Sherlock repeated and shrugged, he saw no reason to make it into something more than it actually was.

“No, Sherlock,” John shook his head and held onto his gaze as if he was trying to really emphasise something, “Thank you, for...”

Oh.

Sherlock thought he understood. It wasn’t the tea John thanked him for, it was these last three weeks. Apparently he had done it right. Good. He had to remember that, even if he hoped he wouldn’t have to use this gathered knowledge again.

“You’re welcome,” he said, but added after a short silence: “You shouldn’t blame yourself.”

John really shouldn’t. It wasn’t his fault, not even close. Harry had made her own choices and even if she might have relied on John to fix certain things now and then it was still all her fault. He hoped John would tell Mycroft that if it was ever a need for it, because, even if he wanted to, Sherlock wasn’t sure he would ever be able to do it himself.

“I don’t.”

Sherlock just looked at him, why did people who knew him even bother lying?

“So much…” John tried to correct his answer. “Anymore.” 

That would do. 

Sherlock brought his own tea back to the armchair and picked up the article again. He didn’t get very far in his pretend-reading before John interrupted.

“Do me one last favour?” John asked and Sherlock looked up with raised brows, didn’t he know by now that he would do practically everything for him? “Call Mycroft.”

It was an odd, but not unexpected request. It was a John-request, the John who thought about other people. The one who cared. The one Sherlock had tried to act like every single second for the last weeks. Maybe that was the reason it felt really good to be able to turn back to the article with the words:

“I did that yesterday.” 

Or maybe he just dared to believe that it would be all right now.


End file.
